


Persephone

by LuminousLu



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven, Coven - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/F, Hell, Personal hell, Romance, supreme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminousLu/pseuds/LuminousLu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lost in Hell,—Persephone, <br/>Take her head upon your knee; <br/>Say to her, "My dear, my dear, <br/>It is not so dreadful here." <br/>— Edna St. Vincent Millay</p>
<p>Cordelia and Misty find their way to each other, through realms of heaven and hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

Hello, dear readers! 

 

This is my first time writing American Horror Story fanfiction. I fell in love with the show halfway through Coven, and I’m completely addicted. I haven’t written anything for a fandom in a couple of years, so I’m a little bit rusty. Still, I hope you like this. Cordelia and Misty got to me, as characters, so far that I absolutely had to write this. I’m well aware that I’m jumping on a bit of a bandwagon, here, but I just had to! 

I hope you like it, and that you talk to me about it! I’m not sure when I can post again, but I’ll do it as soon as possible.

Thank you for taking the time to read this!

 

—————-

1. 

 

** CORDELIA **

  

My hands are the first to wake. That’s how I feel the new day coming — perhaps a remnant of the time I spent unable to see with my eyes, only through touch and the inner Sight. These things stick with us for longer than we expect them to. This might stick with me forever, the awareness of my skin. 

The second thing I feel is the lack of something. I imagine it’s a feeling similar to that of people who lose a limb — in the first few seconds of consciousness you expect it to be there, to remain as a part of you, and then you realize it’s gone. Her hand isn’t there anymore, and yet mine is half open, waiting for hers to fit into it during the night. It takes me a moment to know it’s real, that she is gone. 

That’s when I’m truly awake. 

 

——-

 

It’s been two days since my interview on national television. Two days of girls lining up outside our school, waiting to be taken into this house for protection and guidance, like I had imagined through all these years as a headmistress.

It’s been nine days since I ordered a press release informing the world that we are, in fact, a Coven of witches and aim to live out and proud.

And it’s been ten days. Ten days since I submitted myself to the test of the Seven Wonders and passed with flying colors. Ten days since I became the most powerful witch in this Coven. 

Ten days since I’ve had her hand on mine. 

 

——-

 

She said the words and descended into her personal hell. I couldn’t see her; I could only feel her face against my chest, her upper body lying on my legs the same way it had a handful of other times, in the darkness of the night or the soft light of an afternoon. I had her in my arms and then I didn’t. She was warm, and then she was no more and I was left with the ashes in my hands, flowing all around my skirt. 

I remember screaming. I remember that nothing happened after I screamed, they all stood still for what felt like eternity, until Zoe came and tried to embrace me. I shoved her away. She was stepping on the ashes of my Misty, on the small particles left of her. Aunt Myrtle made some god awful remark about how Zoe was using her as a stepping stone already, and I lost all that was left of my consciousness. 

They told me that Zoe and Auntie Myrtle put her ashes away in a box, the box that I have on my nightstand. She’s as close to me as she can be, now. And today that the doors to this school are opening, her absence is palpable. 

 

——

 

I force myself out of bed. Now that I can see with my physical eyes, everything is easier once again; at the same time, everything feels a thousand times heavier. The dress that I choose to wear, long and flowery like she would like me to; the small necklace around my neck. On my wrists, a few of her bracelets — and curiously enough, they make me lighter, softer. They keep her with me. 

The girls come into the room and I run through the motions with them. It’s easier to get distracted, to let myself go into mindless conversation and mundane details to avoid feeling it. Zoe and Queenie know. They hover almost constantly, keeping me occupied with whatever they can to keep me from breaking down. They’re sympathetic, but they don’t seem to know what else to do. 

Neither do I. 

 

——

 

** MISTY DAY **

 

Blood. 

Again, and again and that goddamned man still makes me do it. I can’t, I can’t, please don’t make me, please don’t force me. It’s a living being, it hasn’t done anything wrong. 

Please, no. 

The insides are rubbery, tough like they are on the gators at the swamp. I felt them. I saw them before I brought them back to life. And it’s with the same impulse that my hands close above the small frog and bring it back again. 

“Mr. Cringley, she did it again!”

In a fraction of a second he’s by my side again and good Lord, I can’t fight it anymore. His hands are strong and cold and they force the scalpel into the belly of the poor animal and I’m out, I’m out of here, I need to get away. I can’t stay, I can’t, so I push him away. My hands feel soft and weak against his chest. He’s like a wall. It takes the strength of my shoulder and my back to push him away and to run to the door. 

I know this place; I went to this high school for a bit when I was fifteen and I took off never to come back, after a couple of months. My Momma had just left her second husband and we had moved from Baton Rouge to N’Orleans.  She put me here to try to set me straight, to try to make me fall into the ways of Jesus. Catholic school, it is, and I ran with all my might. I can still smell the hallways and the candles and the scent of guilt and pain and small tots bein’  beaten with rulers to keep from straying. 

It comes back to me with a slap as soon as I open the door to the hallway. It’s empty, completely empty, and maybe this is my way out of hell, maybe this is how I can go back to the light. A small voice in my head keeps telling me to follow the light, to come to her, to come to someone,  and I just go because I suddenly know who it is, who’s calling for me. It makes me strong.  

The hallway is long, too long, and I run, run, run and it never ends. Rooms keep appearing on each side and a part of me realizes I’ll never make my way out of there. I’ll always run. I’m stuck. 

And in the moment I realize I’m stuck, I also realize that for the first time since I was fourteen, I can’t hear Stevie’s voice in my mind. At the same time, I feel a tingle in my hand, like a gush of wind and a need to grab for something. It goes away as quickly as it came. 

 

———-

 

** CORDELIA **

 

Zoe is the first to suggest it. Over breakfast, a couple of weeks after the Academy has reopened, she sits in front of me and I can tell she’s uncomfortable. Her hands are on the table, resting in an artificial position while her eyes roam the room, landing everywhere but on mine. I could use my powers to read into her, to know what she wants, but I choose not to. When it’s possible, I try to stay out of people’s heads and allow them to explain their thoughts themselves. 

So I wait. She draws a breath and I find myself doing the same.

“Cordelia, Queenie and I have been going over some of the Academy arrangements and…” She clears her throat and I realize what this is about. Of course. 

“Misty’s room.” The words escape me before I can realize it, soft like a breath. It might be the first time I say her name after all the trials. I don’t know, I’m not sure, but it feels like it. It feels like I haven’t said it in a very, very long time. 

Zoe seems relieved; like she won’t have to talk about it anymore. Like I got the message and she doesn’t have to be faced with the awkwardness again. 

“She and I can clear it out, if you want us to. Queenie, I mean.” Another pause. “So you don’t have to go through it yourself.”

“No.” I’m clear and short and I don’t know why, but the idea of the two girls touching Misty’s belongings makes my stomach churn. No, nobody gets to touch her things. “No, it’s no need. I’ll get to it as soon as possible.” 

“I’m sorry. It’s just that we have a couple of rooms with three girls, and that way we could give them all doubles and they would be much more —

“It’s okay. I know. I’ll see to it that it happens soon.” 

 

——

 

It happens that night. 

I feel a slight sense of _dèja vu_ as I take her things from the closet and place them all around me on the floor. I did this once and found her; this time I won’t. This time she’s nothing but ashes in a small box, and her presence stuck in a hell that is far worse than she ever deserved. 

I don’t cry. I want to, but I don’t allow myself to let go. I tell myself it’s self-control, but deep down I know that if I were to cry now, I wouldn’t stop any time soon. So I just keep on moving, keep on gathering shirts and skirts and shawls; she had a handful of them, and I have no idea of how she managed to get them back here from her shack in the swamp. A short laugh leaves my chest as I remember the way she spoke about the cabin, the way she sat at the breakfast table with me and put her foot on the chair at her side, her head leaning against her knee and her eyes far away as she talked about that magical spot in the woods. How radiant she looked, and how I marveled at her power to look like a ray of sunshine in the midst of a war. 

My hands touch the shawl that was given to her by Stevie Nicks. I know she was wearing it when she disappeared, but somehow this piece of clothing remained. Too powerful, I guess, to be completely stuck in hell. A bit here and a bit there and I wish to all that is sacred that Misty could be in the same position. If that were the case, at least, I’d be able to pull her out, to bring her back. 

I can’t help but to bring it to my face, inhale the scent.

A flash appears before my eyes. It’s like when I had the Sight, but deeper, less figurative. I can feel things, I can feel the panic coming in waves. I’m running. I’m running and she’s by my side and there are doors showing up here and there in the corners of my eyes and I try to grab her hand, but the sudden movement brings me back and I’m in the room again, the cold floor under my legs and my hands clutching a piece of fabric. 

She’s still there. She’s still a being.  

She’s still stuck in Hell. 


	2. II

** CORDELIA **

 

I can’t sleep. I put down Misty’s things hours ago, but that anxiety is still here, the feeling that she might be alive in another realm and her story not quite over, as we expected. As witches, we don’t know the designs of the other levels, but we had all presumed she was gone, body and spirit, when she disintegrated; it was too hard to think otherwise, that she’s still stuck. But maybe it’s the truth. 

I turn in bed, one side to the other as the thought that she’s suffering makes my heart race and my palms sweat. A few weeks ago she was here, on the other side of my bed, softly singing while I dozed off. There was no doubt in my mind that she would be the next Supreme, and now look at me. I’m the chosen one while she’s still stuck in hell. 

Or maybe not. Maybe I’m projecting, maybe she’s gone and what I gathered were remnants of her experience. Just scattered thoughts that she left on the garment she was wearing, leftovers really. I should believe that. That notion should fill me up and make me satisfied, but it doesn’t. 

So I get up with a last look at the clock. It’s 4.26 am and I’m jumping out of bed, wincing as I put my feet on the cold floor, and grabbing the shawl again. 

Zoe’s room is across the hallway from mine. I stop at the door, remembering that she sleeps with Kyle; I don’t want to interrupt them, or make them uncomfortable in any way. Good god, I’m going insane. Where would I ever think of waking up one of my girls — now a member of the Coven counsil — in the middle of the night? This is all insane. I lean my head against the door and breathe slowly, trying to calm myself down. The knots of the wood form a bas-relief against my fingers and I trace the texture like I used to when I was a kid, using it to distract my mind from the piece of cloth that I’m holding in my other hand. Diversion, distraction. That’s the method. 

“Zoe is alone.” 

I jump as I head the deep voice by my side, the simple words spoken with intent. Kyle has his clothes on and is standing outside the door with me,, his expression blank. 

“What?” It’s all I can mutter. His sudden appearance startled me to the point of momentarily forgetting what I’m doing. 

“Zoe. Alone.” He repeats, unfazed. “Girls puked.”

Oh. That’s why he’s awake. Someone vomited and he had to clean up. That makes sense. 

“Who was it? Are they okay?” I know I’m being silly in my concern, but I can’t help it. The task of taking care of these girls is ingrained in me. 

“Eliane. Okay. She’s okay.” He explains and motions to leave. “Zoe is  alone. I will shower.” He walks away and I’m left alone again, in front of the door. 

I knock softly and then enter the room. She sleeps with a lamp on, so it’s not hard to see her in the bed, her chest moving slowly. I stand at the doorway and feel stupid for a moment, my eyes searching for nothing instead of saying a word. 

“Cordelia?” She sits up on the bed, rubbing the sleep off her eyes.

“Hi.”

Her half smile shows and I remember I’m standing in someone’s room in the middle of the night. 

“Hi. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m waking you up, but I need your help.”

 

————-

 

**MISTY DAY**

 

I can’t run anymore. I just can’t, I don’t have it in me. Maybe I’m running in the wrong direction, maybe this is not the way. Maybe I’m digging further into hell, and oh lord, please help me. 

I know I felt something. I felt a tug on my hand while I was running, and a part of me hopes it’s her. I hope she found a way to get to me, to bring me back to the where the girls are so I can continue my trials and maybe become the next supreme. 

No. Who am I kiddin’? I don’t want it. It’s too big a burden for a gal like me, too much to pay attention to. I just wanna go back to that house and be there. Learn from her, dance with her, sleep with her. I don’t need to be the supreme. 

Deep down, I’m hoping this thought will redeem me. I’m hopin’ it’ll make them see I’m good, I don’t want any of this, I don’t need the competition. Bring me back. Please?

I turn to one of the doors that kept appearing by my side. My hand lands on the metal knob and I shiver, I feel cold for the first time since I got here. It turns easily, so easily and then there’s noise. At the end of the hallway, in a place I can’t see anymore, there are voices. Mr. Cringly, Bobby, the other kids. They’re coming for me. 

I slide in the door without even knowing what’s inside. That shit out there ain’t for me, I need to hide. I don’t care if it’s dark and it smells like moth balls and I can’t see squat in front of me, I’m going to be safe here. 

A light cord swings by my head and I catch it, turn it on, and that’s when my stomach sinks again. I know this place. 

It’s my room when I was a kid, a small, tiny room by the kitchen where my Momma and Daddy worked. There’s a bed and my Fleetwood Mac posters are covering up the walls and oh God, my momma is lying in that bed. I know when this is, I know it, I can feel it in my toes. She’s in a coma, she’s there and I can’t do anything, I’m five and she’s almost dying, I can feel her taking the last couple of breaths. She’s diabetic and the sugar is killing her — I can see an open box of sweets by her side.  

I get close to the bed as she exhales one last time and I watch how her skin turns grey. Time goes by differently and she’s dead, oh no, she’s dead so I put my hands on her face and focus real hard, think about her body when she was alive, try to bring the light into it. Her eyes open after a moment and she’s back but she’s not happy, she pushes me away and runs to the door.

“You’re the devil!” She screams as I recoil, as I try to make myself small under the bed and I remember this, it already happened when I was six, I was here before and I heard her before, calling me that. “You’re the devil, child, and you need to be cleaned and purified or to get the fuck away from me!” She’s yelling from the door and I’m tiny again and my dad isn’t coming in. He came in when I was a little girl, why isn’t he here now? Why isn’t he comforting me? Why do I have to do this? 

I cover my eyes to keep from seeing my mother running away from me and I only open them when the door slams. 

Oh, shit. 

I’m by the door again and she’s back in bed, in a coma. It’s all playing out again. It’s just like before, and it’ll all play over and over again until… Well. I don’t know. Maybe forever. 

 

————-

 

** CORDELIA **

 

“Feel the shawl?” Zoe’s eyebrow rises and I feel even stupider than before. This was a mistake. A huge one. 

“Yes.” I scratch out. “I know it’s weird, but — listen, I had a feeling and I need you to tell me it’s just me, that it’s nothing but my imagination and my need to —

I stop talking before I sound crazier than before. I’m the god damned Supreme of this coven, and I sound like a lovestruck teenager wanting to get a message across the room to her lover. 

“Just feel it. Please?” 

Another half smile and she holds her hand open, expecting me to put the garment on it. I do it quickly and my breath gets stuck in my chest, unwanted. I’m nervous and I shouldn’t be. 

Zoe moves the shawl into her lap and moves her hands on it, feeling the fabric with her fingers, the palm of her hands, her wrists. She does it slowly, intently, and I know she’s trying to capture anything that might come from it. 

I feel slightly betrayed. Like she took it from me, like I wasn’t the one to give it to her just to have it worked upon by a hand that isn’t mine. Like she’s fondling Misty herself. The pang of jealousy expands when  she puts it across her back, so far that I have to take a deep breath in order for it to go away. She closes her eyes when I inhale and I want to shake her to ask what she knows. 

“So?” I manage to croak out when she opens her eyes, and she shrugs, pulling it off her back. Her features have fallen, she’s sporting a grave, heavy look. 

“I’m so sorry.” She places the embroider fabric on my open hands and looks away. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Thank you.” I whisper. 

It’s like the room crashes around me. The glass of water Zoe has on her bedside table shakes softly as I contain my energy and I get up, the shawl bundled up in my hands. 

“I think she’s gone, Cordelia.” Zoe says sweetly, from the bed, and I turn around. 

“Yes.” It’s all I can say before I make my way out.

I walk to bed in a daze, lie down and put the silk around me. It has her smell. Maybe it’s all that I felt, maybe I just miss her. Maybe she’s gone for good.

I cover myself, the shawl still around me, and I start to mindlessly hum a song she used to sing. I fall asleep quickly, the image of her twirling around filling up my mind. 

 

———

 

** MISTY DAY **

 

I keep wakin’ her up and she keeps on dying and that’s when I hear it for the first time. Stevie is singing ‘Landslide’ and I feel a rush of peace coming over me like a wave. Maybe this is it. Maybe they’re coming for me now and I’ll get out of this hell. 

But it stops after a few seconds and all I can do is crumble against the wall, my mother still dead in the cot and my hands shaking. 

I’mma be stuck here forever. 


End file.
